Pterodactyls and Moonshine
by bananaquit
Summary: Fiddleford didn't plan on building the robot, but he did. He didn't plan on using the robot, but...


**I know that it's likely that Fiddleford's wife left him after he lost his mind, but I thought it would be interesting if it happened while he was still working on the portal with Ford. This fic resulted.**

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Everything was going great. Then he got the news.

He really didn't know what to do. He didn't particularly want to talk to Stanford about the fact that his wife had just left him (over the phone, too, which was like an extra punch to the gut). The one thing he did know how to do was create. Tinkering had always been a specialty of his, after all. He started making the blueprints as a simple way to vent his thoughts and feelings. He certainly didn't intend on actually creating the thing. He still did the calculations and ran the numbers that would make for a working machine anyway. Solving an equation was always strangely satisfying. When he had finished the blueprints and quintuple-checked every problem and he was still left with more emotion than he could handle, he started taking bits of scrap metal when Stanford wasn't looking. He figured it would be kind of a shame to have done all the work and then _not_ build it. He wasn't going to use it anyway, right? Plus, the manual labor instilled a strange sense of calm in him.

He'd taken to leaving Stanford to do his afternoon research runs on his own. Meanwhile, Fiddleford worked in a clearing far behind the house that was well-sheltered from prying eyes and well-hidden enough that it was unlikely his colleague would stumble upon it. Ford was always crabbier when he came home after a few hours out alone, complaining about whatever he'd encountered. He tended to lash out sometimes, but always came back and apologized later. Fiddleford felt a bit guilty about it, knowing full well that Stanford was just hurt that he was suddenly refusing to come on his nightly expeditions.

He finished the robot after a week of work. He assumed that when he reached this stage that he would be calm enough to disassemble the thing and move on. He didn't think he would find himself entertaining the idea of climbing inside the thing he had designed to be a "homicidal ptreodactlytron". He didn't think he would climb inside, but here he was, sitting at the controls. What was the point of building the thing if he wasn't going to use it, right? As long as he wrote down the results, he could just take it out for a test run and say it was for science. After all, he felt a bit better now, it wasn't as if he was going to be doing anything malicious with it, even if that was the thing's original purpose. Curiosity finally overcame him and he shifted a couple of levers. He felt the machine groan to life beneath him and checked his view through the eyeholes of the mechanical pterosaur. Everything seemed to be in working order. With slight anticipation and excitement, the young engineer angled the controls upward and took flight. He sailed over the quaint little town, trying to get the hang of how the machine handled. It was a bit difficult. Clearly, his design skills had been impeded by his emotional state. It was so cramped in here. He adjusted his position slightly.

Then everything came crashing down. His elbow accidentally hit the flamethrower button as he moved his arm. Fiddleford watched the jet of flame burst out in front of the robot. This would have been fine, since he was high above the town and couldn't cause any damage, but since the spot where the fire originated was just below the viewing holes, sparks and cinders were blowing up from underneath and obstructing his view. Steering became harder than it already was. He muttered something sarcastic to himself under his breath about the A+ weapon positioning and did his best to remain to remain on course. The decorative metal spikes and long neck probably didn't help with maneuverability. Another oversight. He didn't even realize he was heading down closer to the buildings below until the smoke cleared for a moment. By then, it was too late. As the building loomed up before him, he yanked the controls upward in a vain attempt to avoid the obstacle. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the screaming of the innocent townsfolk around him, and braced for impact.

It all happened in a matter of seconds. He was flung against the front of the machine, head smashing against metal. Then everything was light and dark and colors and pain. Pain, searing and stinging. He was dimly aware of his own screeching and the feeling of his body being somehow everywhere at once, stretched and smashed and tossed. There was a cacophony of hissing and crashing and scraping. Then he was still again, and there was darkness. But he hadn't blacked out, he could still feel the pain. He didn't move for a couple of moments, too shocked and in too much pain to do much of anything. He turned his head, feeling warm steel against his cheek. Tears poured from his eyes as he struggled to get his bearings. There was no way to tell what was around him. All that was familiar was the control console and his seat. Around that, everything was just twisted metal and shattered glass and bricks and shafts of sunshine. He tried to move, but a fresh wave of pain overcame him. He looked down to see that one of his legs was crushed between the control console and the seat. He could feel blood all over him, warm and sticky and wet. There was no time to look for wounds. He had to get out of his mess.

Fiddleford wiped away the blood that was dripping from his forehead into his eyes with his hand, shuddering as he drew it back to look at his scarlet-stained fingertips. He whimpered, looking for a way out. Though his vision was blurred with blood and tears, he spotted a lever that had snapped off of the controls and reached for it, straining with the effort. He paused to take a few deep breaths. Every part of him hurt. Every part of him was screaming, but no sound came from his mouth. He bit his lip so hard he was sure he drew more blood and put every ounce of his effort into straining toward the lever. Finally, he grabbed a hold of it. He then wedged it in between the seat and console, using the leverage to force the two components apart just enough for his leg to slip free. The pain when he moved said leg even an inch was so intense that he had to take a moment just to lay there and make a conscious effort not to black out.

His breaths came in shallow gasps. There should have been a million thoughts racing through his head, but he couldn't think at all. He could only feel the tears burning on his face and the blood coating his torn skin and the pain. He could only crawl toward the sunshine. Then he was free of the flaming wreckage of his creation, escaping through the smoke and twisted metal and the ruins of whatever building he'd crashed into, dragging his battered body across the dirt and back into the woods. He could feel the grit under his skin. He had to stand. A strangled half-sob escaped his mouth as he managed to stagger to his feet, stumbling and crashing into a tree and slumping back to the dirt once more. Every movement was too much, but he did it. He hauled himself upward. He stood on his feet. He limped, hopped, stopped, fell. Slowly, he began to make his way in the direction he thought the house was in. The porch came into view and his body finally gave out. He was dimly aware of a voice shouting his name before he fell to the ground once more, happy to let himself fall unconscious and let the pain fade into nothingness.

He couldn't help but let out a slight yelp as he bolted awake from yet another nightmare. But when he tried to sit upright, it felt like he'd been stabbed in the abdomen. He made a sound like he was retching and fell back against something soft. That wasn't a nightmare.

"Fiddleford?" came Stanford's voice.

He clenched his teeth together so tightly he thought he would break his jaw, trying hard to breathe through the pain coursing through him. He tried to relax his muscles, glad for the comfort of the couch cushions underneath his bruised back. At least the pain wasn't as bad as it had been. This, he could push through. He turned his head to look at Ford. The man was just sitting there, staring at him with that strange wide-eyed owlish look of his.

Stanford broke the silence. "Your wounds looked a lot more severe than they were." he spoke, looking down at the mug of coffee that was clenched in his hands and swirling it around nervously. "You didn't regain consciousness until now. I was worried." he admitted.

Fiddleford lifted his hand to examine the bandages around his upper arm in the morning light and the drip pumping painkillers into his bloodstream. He looked down to see another bandage around his right calf and a full-length cast on his left leg. There were also several think layers of gauze wrapped around his torso and forehead.

"Thanks." Fiddleford managed, not really sure what else to say. The silence was thick and heavy and uncomfortable.

Ford was again the one to fill the void with words. "There were some minor burns and scrapes that are already healing over. Most of the bandages are for lacerations. You have some admittedly bad bruising on your back and head, in addition to that broken leg, but you should recover quickly." He voice was quick and tense, as if he was trying to assure himself more than Fiddleford. "You lost a lot of blood, I had to find some more on short notice." Fiddleford tried not to think about how he'd acquired that.

A few more minutes of quiet passed. Ford sipped his coffee. After a while, he wordlessly handed Fiddleford a copy of the latest _Gravity Falls Gossiper_. Fiddleford stared at the headline and the photos of the damage he had caused with his machine. Stanford stood up and moved to walk out of the room to give his friend some time to himself, but froze in the doorway and turned back when Fiddleford started sobbing. He didn't ask questions, he didn't probe. He just walked back over again and waited and watched him silently until it all started spilling out.

"She left me. She jus' up n' left me. I don't know what I did wrong, Ford. I don't know why she did it. I don't know if I'm gonna get to see Tate again… I don't know anything." Fiddleford put his face in his hands. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You know a lot, Fiddleford. Probably more than I do. There's no need to take this out on yourself." came Stanford's soft voice as he knelt down next to the couch. Fiddleford tried to get words out, but all that came was a whimper of sorrow. He felt his friend's arms wrap around him and gladly accepted the warm embrace, burying his face in his shoulder. They stayed like that until he stopped crying. Almost as soon as Ford broke away and sat back down on the chair opposite him, Fiddleford let the whole story came spilling out. The phone call he'd received. The shock. The way he poured his emotions into blueprints and how the labor was almost more soothing than music. The flawed design, the accidental crash. The guilt. "I feel terrible about all this, Stanford. The townsfolk didn't do anythin' at all to deserve that."

Ford shrugged. "You didn't mean to. Besides, the people of this town witness so many strange things on a daily basis that I'm sure they'll forget about it eventually. Nobody knew it was you anyway."

Fiddleford bit back a reply. You didn't just _forget_ things like that. He was sure that the civilians of Gravity Falls had experienced plenty of things they'd like to forget. There were plenty of things _he'd_ like to forget. He stored that thought in the back of his brain for another time.

Instead he just let out a sigh. "Do me a favor and get me my moonshine from the kitchen?"

"Your moonshine? Fiddleford, I thought you promised not to bring any alcohol with you."

"Sometimes a man just needs a drink, Stanford. It's back behind the middle drawer on the left. You gotta pull it all the way out and reach way back." Ford rolled his eyes, getting up and following his instructions anyway. He retrieved the silver flask and put the drawer back in place, turning to look at the southerner with one eyebrow raised.

"I've got half a mind to throw this out." Stanford scolded.

"You wouldn't. You know that thing's my only sanctity righ' now."

Ford just gave him another sarcastic eyeroll and tossed him the flask. "Drinking is probably going to interfere with the painkillers." he warned.

Fiddleford took a swig and shrugged, not really caring. A few minutes of silence passed. Then he started laughing hysterically. "It's funny, ain't it? Just downright silly. A freaking pterodactyl. I made it a freaking pterodactyl, Ford."

Ford snickered slightly. "No more eccentric than other things you've made."

"Guess so." There were a couple more minutes of silence. "'Ya ever had moonshine?"

"No, I don't drin-"

"Nonsense. That's a load 'a crap 'n you know it. Don't forget who had to do that chem exam with no lab partner because you were too hungover to leave the dorm."

"That was _one time_. How did you expect me to know how it would affect me when I'd never had a drink before in my life? I was in a tough spot, you can't blame me. And for your information, I haven't had any alcohol since."

"You failed _one test_." Fiddleford rolled his eyes and sighed. A long pause. "Sure you don't wanna try some?" he offered, waving the flask in front of his face. "Promise you my recipe's famous back in Tennessee for a reason."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Your loss, partner." Fiddleford shrugged. He downed the whole flask and passed out again.


End file.
